The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
King Jaehaerys II's health had deteriorated rapidly. On his death bed, he only allowed his three children to visit. One by one, they said their goodbyes. The Hand of the King, Arkas Baratheon, remained in the room during these times. To Daeron, he forgave for his sullying of the Targaryen line. To Rhaegar, he commended for being the better of the sons. To Alysanne, he declared her his heir.
What should have brought the three siblings together ended up tearing them apart, starting a fiery feud of who was to take their father's place on the Iron Throne. Three arguable contenders stood apparent. Daeron Targaryen was the firstborn son, but having married a woman with commoner blood, he could never produce a legitimate heir to the throne. Rhaegar Targaryen was the favored son, but he kidnapped the Princess of Dorne and caused a diplomatic hellstorm. Alysanne Targaryen was decreed by her father to take the throne, but this was beyond the King's power, so his words could only be taken at face value.
It would take some time before any of this could be figured out. For now, the kingdom focused on the loss of their beloved King Jaehaerys II, a man who brought prosperity to the lands of Westeros.
today
Even in a casket, the fallen King looked sickly and feeble. Stones lay on his eyes, and his flesh had already become bone white. Whenever nobles gathered in such a large capacity, clamoring and ruckus always ensued. But only sullen words and hushed chatter fell on those who attended the wake of King Jaehaerys II.
The ceremony did not start for another half an hour, and those prestigious enough to be invited were allowed to approach the casket and say their parting words, although most opted for quiet mingling amongst themselves.
[ participation in this event allows one evolution for an item/animal/magic. there is no posting order. post at least five times to be considered a legitimate participant. ]
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 19, 2017 11:36:43 GMT
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[attr="class","likedotitle2"]PRELUDE
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Arkas Baratheon, Hand of the King by one of the fading King's last decrees, stood off to the side. The moment demanded respect, but the true aftermath of Jaehaerys' passing had yet to begin. A cynical mind would say that Jaehaerys had been dying from the moment he was born. Jaehaerys was weak looking, pale and frail with - He suffered from numerous ailments throughout his life.
An amiable and clever, yet sickly man, Jaehaerys died with not a single soul in the kingdoms surprised. Perhaps, when a man feels things come to an end, he will seek a legacy more so than during the days of his life, for they are numbered. Nothing lives on but deeds.
Arkad had received a raven from the capital not a month ago. The king's old comrade, his trusty Hand, Lord William Rykker, had retired, removing himself to the family seat of Duskendale in order to have a few more years with his grand children before the Stranger would come for him as well. Jaehaerys' rule had been peaceful enough, allowing for Lord Rykker to oversee a peace that ruled itself.
But during his final weeks, legacy impending, the King had desired a younger Hand, a man capable of seeing his will be done. Remembering a favour owed, the King has recalled the Lord of Storm's End. Lord Baratheon barely had had the time to arrange the chairs in his office when the Maesters had informed him that the King was not long for this world. Ravens had been sent to the Lords and Ladies of the Seven Kingdoms, informing them, respectfully, of the King's impending demise.
Then, two days ago, the King had faded away. Quicker, somehow, than the Maesters had foretold, but in the end, fever is a cruel fire and the body of a weak man is nothing but a barn during the heat of summer, ready to burst into a ruinous firestorm at so much as a spark.
Considering the respect that was owed to the Good King, Arkas had made no moves beyond beginning to claim control of the city. The King's wishes or not, Princess Alysanne was not the legitimate heir. A King's power was not absolute. House Targaryen no longer controlled dragons to enforce their wills. Debt owed or not, the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms would not accept a female inheriting over able sons - Well, perhaps the Prince of Dorne would appreciate that wink of fate, but these were not the lands and customs of the warrior princess Nymeria of times ancient.
Arkas liked not a single one of the choices. They all had positive aspects about them. But they all had made decisions that had not benefitted their claim to the Iron Throne, and thus the realm. Arkas was not blind to the way of politics, but he was not a shrewd schemer. Jaehaeys had made him Lord Regent for factual policies that could hardly be ignored, so explained the hand-shaped brooch upon the lapel of his black attire, an outfit of respectful morning.
He was but one man. He could not crown Kings or Queens.
Arkas wanted to call a Great Council in three months time, given the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms needed to be informed and gathered. The three heirs would be able to make their cases there. His duty was to keep the King's peace - until then. Prince Daeron was seated at Harrenhall, controlling a considerable amount of men at arms. The love of the smallfolk was his, for he had gained the favour by choosing his wife over the throne. Not that he didn't think he still deserved it. The King's first son was a man of action.
Prince Rhaegar had been known for impulsive deeds. Pure of heart, but quick to draw a blade. It was a good quality, if the heart aligned with fate. But would he draw steel upon his kind in order to stake his claim? Arkas could not tell. The fury of the dragon was a flippant toss of coin, both greatness and the fall into the abyss.
Alysanne was truly a fitting heir. She had shaped the political landscape of recent years with amiable maneuvering. She danced politics as the Water Dancers of Braavos flowed through martial struggle. While her brothers had struggled in the squabble for their father's support, the daughter had silently, dutifully but also assertively spread her influence. And truly, as the third child, further hindered by her gender's predicament: she had nothing to lose.
The moment he was going to tell them of his decision to not crown any of them, their reactions would betray them. He hoped. Three months, until such a King-making council could be called, were enough time for intrigues and secret plots. His duty was to the realm. Would they sit and accept fate or would they try to violently claim by the most ancient of all rights - the right of conquest?
His Grace, Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, had faded. And once the gathered nobles had said their respects, a funeral pyre would consume the dead body in a last firestorm, a dragonlord tradition.
The roads curved for a thousand miles. Snow transitioned into foliage and mountain ranges, replaced with a myriad of villages and small towns. His fur retired for simple leathers, the only constant remained in the form of the grand crest of House Stark, embroidered proudly on the right of his chest.
A month on Kingsroad would exhaust a lesser man, nonetheless, Jeren remained as poised in his arrival as his departure. Having left Winterfell a night before his Cassius, the heir to the North prioritized arriving to ensure their affairs were in order before the Lord stepped a single foot in King’s Landing. Lord Stark was a respected man of the realm and embodied the hearts of the people; still, his mind for politics hadn’t aged well. In the absence of this concern, Jeren took the mantle of such a duty and would act in the image of his father. The crown expected both their arrivals, though the boy wished it was on better circumstances.
In the large chambers surrounded by his equals and superiors in some respect, the young wolf stood before the statuesque corpse. King Jaehaerys in his time, was a man of great approbation and honor. Tales of his conquests were fabled, and his advancements in peace were unrivaled. Seeing such a powerful man so powerless would create a paradigm-shift into the entire seven kingdoms. The white of his skin and absence of breath concluded a chapter, but inspired anew for their late king. His grace would find the ultimate peace he fought for in the unknown; or so one could only hope.
His final remarks would go unnoticed and unheard to the masses, for it was a conversation meant only for his grace. It would be brief, for others demanded solace with Jaehaerys and soon enough, Jeren would remove himself from the base of the coffin, tending to the politics thereafter.
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 19, 2017 18:31:03 GMT
The corpse of the king was nothing worth showing respect to. Quellon ignored it, as he ignored the lesser nobles around him. The crowds of people, talking about the future, afraid of their fates, unlearned of their histories meant nothing to the Lord Reaver. He was a man taught the secrets of the past. He knew that a dead king with no clear heir would only bring chaos to the realms.
And that was for the best.
Quellon, in all black robes, strode through the crowds. He paid no attention to anyone who tried to stop him, ignored the childish desire called “gossip,” and walked straight towards the Hand of the King.
Lord Arkas Baratheon. He did not know it yet, but he was Quellon’s greatest enemy. A wall not unlike the one to the north, keeping the Ironborn from mastering the lamentable continent of Westeros.
“Lord Hand,” Quellon said. He loomed over Arkas. “Only two souls bared witness to the king’s death. That was a mistake. If you knew he was dying you should have assembled all his children, to prevent this coming Dance of Dragons.”
The chatter was exhausting. Nobles from all corners of Westeros gathered to confide in one another. The tradition of a King’s passing had become an instrument for politics and saved little room for actual remorse. In truth, it was difficult to believe more than a handful of those in attendance actually cared for the man whose eyes were hidden beneath twin coins. Jeren himself only knew of the man from his father’s encounters with the royal family, for several years separated today’s event and his last visit to King’s Landing.
Still, the value in masquerading as one of them wasn’t lost on the man. It was a dangerous game and surely what transpired on the eve of his grace’s untimely death would shape the very fabric of the kingdoms in due time. Jeren would ensure his house and home weren’t on the receiving end of any calamity or deceit. So he moved with absolute resolve. He would shake some hands, hear tales of times during his youth that he couldn’t recall from people he barely knew. Lord Stark’s name was even mentioned several times over. The wellness of his mother and the lives of his siblings were questioned with false gratitude. He’d smile for them, though silently taking everything of importance in.
In passing, the image of Lord Greyjoy and the Hand came to his peripheral. One towered the other, though their presences were of equal weight; maybe even sliding in favor of the King’s regent. Keeping a safe, though comfortable distance, the young Stark became a sponge, attempting to soak the gravity of their ords into his senses. Eavesdropping wasn’t his most decent trait, however, in this game, the one who knew the most would know victory as well.
So he stood, blending in with the crowd, making his presence known, not felt. His words catered to the crowd, but his ears were engrossed in the two’s conversation.
Post by SAERA TARGARYEN on Aug 19, 2017 19:20:40 GMT
It had been seven years since Saera Targaryen had stood on the grounds of Westeros. Seven years since she had smelled the familiar stink of King's Landing. In that time, she had been protected as a ward of the Sealord of Braavos. It would have been disgraceful had Saera not used that time wisely, building relationships and earning favor for House Targaryen in Essos. Through a combination of cunning and circumstance, Saera became an ambassador of Braavos and traveled throughout the east to the Free Cities and beyond. She became an able politician and a clever diplomat in her time away from home.
Yet as soon as she returned to Westeros, all of her prestige and skilled was wasted. Saera was just another lady whose destiny was to be married off to a man and forced to raise his brood. Today, Saera was not just another lady. She was the granddaughter of the dead king, one of the kindest men she ever knew, and she was hear to mourn his death.
Saera wore all black like many others. Elegant ebony lace and silk had been woven in intricate patterns of swirling fire to make up her form-fitting dress, and her silver hair stood in stark contract to the dark colors of her clothing as it was fell down her back in a loose braid. Her Braavosi blade, which was usually on her hip, was not present on her person. The funeral of a king was no place for swords. Saera was remarkably unaccompanied, her sworn shield Ser Tristifer Thorne nowhere to be seen and no guards around her person. It was unusual, even in a place so protected by the gold and white cloaks.
Anyone who remembered Saera as a girl might make note that she was unusually silent. Her face was set in a grim scowl, though her attention was not on her grandfather's corpse. Once she arrived in the chamber, Saera remained distant from the others who had come to honor the king. She stood stiffly away from them all, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she continued to bathe in silent solitude.
Post by ARGELLA ARRYN on Aug 19, 2017 19:34:39 GMT
King's Landing was absolutely terrible. Gone were the clean, fresh air of the Vale and the sounds of swords clashing, replaced by a bitter silence, a tension in the air that Argella was not very familiar with. This sort of thing, political and dreadful, was something the eldest daughter of lord and lady Arryn was not used to. Still, she was smart enough to understand that the situation the Seven Kingdoms were in was delicate, for a lack of a better word.
Her amber colored eyes found the reason of this gathering, the corpse of the king resting on that table as if he was sleeping. Still, he looked like the most comfortable person in the whole room, quite honestly, and Argella shifted her weight slightly, discomfort clear on her figure. She caught a glimpse of the new hand of the king (well, he was just hand now, she supposed, since the king was quite dead), of wolves and krakens, as well as a lone dragon, but Argella found herself rather shy or, better said, embarrassed. She looked out of place there, she assumed, and raised a hand to absentmindedly touch the scar on her cheek. It gave her some sort of comfort, she assumed, to know that she was there, real, like everything else around her. Damn, this wasn't just a bad dream.
She wore a simple black dress, the darkness of the fabric disturbed by only the sigil of house Arryn sewn onto the dress' chest, right over her heart. Still, a dress was a dress, and Argella would have given anything to go back to her usual attire and, more importantly, to her sword.
"Terrible weather, is it not? Fickle, I'd say." She spoke eventually to the person standing nearby, hoping it wasn't someone awfully indisposed.
Post by DAELLA BARATHEON on Aug 19, 2017 21:16:59 GMT
'This is no mere wake,' Daella thought, as the person in front of her moved aside and she stepped forward t otake his place. Head bowed, she peered down at those artificial eyes. 'This is a memorial to a war I lost, for you and I walked every step of these bitter stones together.'
In the years since she had given up her soldiering ways, her hair had grown thick and long. A wiry frame stood beneath, not in dress but in the garb of man, though her figure was mostly hidden by the tangled waves of white that hung far down her back. Not a scandalous thing as it used to be. Many a dragon especially had left for the lands to the east and returned for this occasion.
Of this generation, Daella was simply one of the first.
The background chatter was just that. In her mind's eye could she see her childhood, a girl the faithful companion of a now dead king. She had always thought he had needed her, in a way, and it brought her purpose. But seeing his body as if asleep brought a surreal realization. 'I have lost my right arm.' How many people in that room could say the same? Most were younger than she, even his children not having known Jaehaerys like she did. Or caring as much as she did, she dare say.
She gripped the dark steel, Dark Sister, darkening as she heard words from a voice so abrasive even she could not ignore it in her reverie. Anger washed over her like a flood and her head turned sharply to the direction of her husband, now graced with the presence of vermin. Certainly, it would be hard not to hear her stomping over in their direction, though to Arkas it was a sound he had exasperatedly become accustomed to.
"Jaehaerys was too soft for letting you and yours flourish like roaches! You should never have come here, pretending that isle of salt and rubble was a kingdom!"
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 19, 2017 21:54:10 GMT
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[attr="class","likedotitle2"]FIRESTAR
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]If it wasn't the Lord Reaper of Pyke. Traditionally, the men holding that title had had a great hunger for ambition; ambition that all of their line had been unable to secure. The closest perhaps: Harren the Black. The scorched fortress existed to this day, an eternal monument to the King of the Iron Island's failure.
Quellon ancestors had bent the knee to House Targaryen, given the power of dragons was fyre. And fyre was the greatest terror to wooden castles riding upon the shores of salty waves, wasn't it? "Lord Greyjoy," Arkas greeted, as calm as the waters of Shipbreaker Bay. House Greyjoy was not the only family with relations to the sea, although their ancestral approach was certainly different. The currents below the surface of Shipbreaker Bay were always at work, continiously conjuring up storms.
To wreck all fools and their ambitions.
"This is not the time," he explained to the Ironborn, the body of the King was probably still warm. But the salt-tongued man kept on spitting like a wave that breaks on a cliff spits droplets of foamy salt water. "The King's children were gathered, Lord Greyjoy. I shared your sentiment, but at the time I was Hand of the King. And the King was alive. Stranger close by, he was still the King. And the Hand advises the King, Lord Greyjoy."
As if to prove Arkas' point by spiting it, his wife approached, no doubt summoned forth by her unwavering desire to spark fires. Unable to command the King during his lifetime, he was even more unable to command his wife to silence. And he wouldn't. Letting her say her piece, Arkas didn't think that Lord Greyjoy needed excuses, for he had broken the silence first. Regardless, Arkas hand fell to the side, fingers weaving with the fingers of Daella's swordhand, which had been twitching around the hilt of Dark Sister like the tail of a shadow cat ready to pounce.
"My wife, Lord Greyjoy. Lady Daella. Born of the House Targaryen, Blood of the Dragon. She is passionate about the passing of her cousin. Love is only a stage before grief, I'm sure you know, having buried two wives. Or were it three?" Squeezing Daella's hand, Arkas moved his palm to her cheek after letting go, training her purple gaze upon the steel of his ocean eyes. Guiding her forehead to his for but a peace-inducing moment, he spared a mumble, barely a whisper.
"Nothing brought more joy in my life than your fire. But right here - right now - we need my silence." Turning from his wife, palm lowering, eyes beset Lord Greyjoy once more. "As you are rightfully interested in keeping the peace, why don't you join the next seating of the small council in the morrow?"
Post by THE REAVING KING on Aug 19, 2017 22:29:57 GMT
Daella, silver-haired she may be, was so utterly unimportant to Quellon that he only took time to appraise her sword before looking back to her husband. There was nothing she could do to him here—drawing steel would start a war, and her words were dust on the wind.
“You say you only advise for your king, and yet you didn’t advise him to gather his children in the last few months of his life. Foolishness, Baratheon. Foolishness. I figured you would be a man to learn from history, not ignore it.”
Quellon looked back at the crowd, some of which were still paying their respects, but many more of which were watching the Hand and Lord Greyjoy with interest. Quellon spoke as much to them as he did to Arkas.
“This Great Council of yours won’t come to pass before someone bleeds someone else. Three Targaryens, one of which is considered mad, another of which has a stolen princess and half the Royal Fleet. Soon, lords will begin to declare for their chosen heir. The heir that will give them the most power, or the best deal should they become king.”
Looking back to Arkas, Quellon’s good eye was haunted with scorn. “History is wont to repeat itself. And right now, Lord Hand, you are allowing it to do just that.”
A reaver, the hand, and the hand’s wife; a chaotic trio that would initiate the beginning of today’s end. From the veil of moving bodies, Jeren remained poise, the depth of gold in his eyes fixated on the collection of important bodies before him.
Lady Daella did little to restrain herself as the words from her lips bore sharper edges than the sword to her side. Arkas, the more composed of the three, did what he did well—maintain some semblance of peace during periods of confusion and chaos. And the drowned god’s selected, Quellon did all to resist compliance. His vantage point offered a great view, though as the crowd developed quickly around those conversing, the wolf knew he needed to get closer. Casual bumps guided the man through the crowd until he sat affront all. Hiding in plain sight, Jeren simply listened. Soaking up each syllable and deciphering each sentence, it was apparent pandemonium would ensue.
Arms draped to his side, the Stark camouflaged himself, remaining present but silent as the three continued on. From what his father had told him of her, Daella was a spitfire whose blade accounted for each threat she passed. Quellon appeared to be a man who retreated for none, and as the tension build, Arkas was left to mediate.
How far could the Greyjoy push and would the King’s relative retaliate in kind? Was the King’s Regent steadfast or would the tension snap him in two?
Post by Dalton Greyjoy on Aug 19, 2017 23:32:17 GMT
What was dead may never die, but rise again, stronger. Those were not the words of his house but those of his people and faith. They were words Dalton found himself reminded of as he looked around this place which was as foreign to him as most were on the mainland. Sadly though, while there were wenches galore, there was no tavern in sight to rescue him from the dreariness going on in here. Arms crossed, slightly irked by having to dress formally, he had found himself a nice place to stand while his father went and inserted himself in someone else’s business. He watched, yes, and listened, but he did not feel like intervening. The old man could handle himself there rather easily and did not need anyone to support him. That much was perfectly clear to the younger Greyjoy. The lord Baratheon had gotten his wife to join him in the arduous task to repel mild rudeness from Iron Isles, but all he had to offer in that regard was a light scoff.
‘Roaches’ was new, though. He made a mental note of that. Lady Baratheon, terrible at both insults and comparisons. There were so many perfectly good creatures to compare your enemies to at sea and she chose some that were home to castles that lacked salt. Sword or not, those words rung rather hallow to him. Shortly, ideas flashed through his mind but he discarded them. Keeping a somewhat low profile and not inviting wars one could not win, those had been tenets of his education. Maybe it was ironic that his best teacher was now standing there, agitating one of the mightiest men in the kingdom. Dalton understood why that happened, but it still seemed pointless to him. So he allowed his mind and eyes to wander. This was a wake, not a feast. In true Greenlander fashion it was drawn out and dreary. There was too much black. Sure, his own attire, while finer than what he wore most of the time, only served to exacerbate that problem rather than resolve it.
However, unlike most wakes, this one was slightly remedied, ironically, by the presence of those akin to the one threatening his lord father. It could not be helped, but the combination of almost monochrome blacks and white hair fascinated him, causing the youn lord’s gaze to often linger on Targaryens of both genders. Ultimately though, they remained upon one in particular. Most people were here out of genuine grief, because they wanted to be seen grieving, or a mixture of the two. But that one girl simply kept to herself, away from everyone else, seemingly unwilling to mingle. Was she just unsociable? Was she annoyed by all of this? Was she intimidated by the going ons, or did she mayhap not want to be victim of excessive condolences? It was intriguing to think about. And as he did, he gazed at her unabashedly. Those were not the eyes of a hunter looking for prey, but of someone who was curious and offered brief distraction. Maybe she would pick up on that and react in a way that would lead to him coming close. Maybe she would rebuke him or not notice at all. Any reaction would be an interesting one, he decided.
And so he kept on watching, listening to what was harshly being said not too far from him.
Post by DAERON TARGARYEN on Aug 20, 2017 0:59:33 GMT
Late.
Well, later than he liked. Daeron walked into the sept quietly and avoided the attention of the rabble gathered. He was good at quiet and preferred to listen to the empty pontifications from a distance.
The mood in the chamber was that of an auction. The former Hand of the King played the part of the crier, calling the gathered bidders to order. Although the aging knight clearly took great effort to appear neutral, Daeron knew where his loyalties lay. Alysanne had been his father's favorite since she was only a girl and by proxy the favorite of Arkas. Daeron was never jealous of the long hours the three spent playing at games and conversation, but he was keenly aware of the threat to his claim.
In spite of this, he rather liked the man. Loyalty was to be admired, both to the rightful King and his lawful wife Daella. "Two points he has on me."
The bidders were a diverse bunch, to be sure.
The Stark boy was well known to Daeron. Singers at court often sang the "Wolf and the Whelp," the story of the boy following his father into battle during the Northern Rebellion. "Nary a sword could he carry" clearly no longer applied to the man paying his last respects.
Daeron also noticed his niece, Saera. She had been away from court for quite some time in her early years, but clearly, the experience had done her many favors. A spitting image of his clever sister, Daeron found himself shifting uneasily at her ominous silence.
The smell of salt and shit filled the hall, announcing the arrival of two Greyjoys. As Quellon began to speak, a mouthful of insults tumbled out. To Daeron, the Ironborn were barbarians, barely more cultured than the crabs which overran their forgotten Isles. Furthermore, Morella had warned him of this man's treachery ahead of the wake. Any word from him was not to be trusted.
Biting his tongue, waited to hear the words of the next bidder.
"...roaches!"
Daeron had to smile at these words. It took a dragon to speak truth in these walls, and he was glad to see Daella stand for his family. It was not lost on him she was willing to criticize his father at his own wake, however indirectly. Although he did not know his cousin well, perhaps she was a real dragon like himself and could speak truth to her husband Arkas.
The rest did not go unnoticed, the slouching Greyjoy boy and the daughter of the Erie, trying and failing to make awkward small talk. But Daeron had no interest in the squabbling of the rabble before him. The main attraction, the twin thorns in his side, were later still than Daeron.
Post by ARKAS BARATHEON on Aug 20, 2017 1:47:50 GMT
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[attr="class","likedotitle2"]FIRESTAR
[attr="class","likedoinfo"]Lord Baratheon looked across the Sept of Baelor, spotting Prince Daeron. Once upon a time, Daeron had been the Prince of Dragonstone. Then he had married. A personal choice that had been honourable had enraged his father none the less. Arkas couldn't have said if he blamed or favoured the choice. It had never been his task to judge any of it. He was merely the only wall between chaos of succession and peace.
"I'm glad you agree, Lord Greyjoy," Arkas looked back to the Krakenlord, that old, brooding One-Eye of a Man. "History will repeat itself." But Arkas and Lord Greyjoy were talking about different points in time. Of course, the Lord of Storm's End had misunderstood on purpose.
"The Great Council of Succession in 233 AC brought the realm a just king, did it not? Aegon the Unlikely - Aegon the Fifth of His Name, established a peace that lasted his entire life, a peace that lasted into the reign of Jaehaerys. I've seen war in Essos, the Stepstones, and on the Dornish border. I only stand before you to have this disagreement because of my wife's skill with the sword you're doing well to eye."
Arkas, for a moment, was reminded of a day twenty years ago. Drunk on their youth and wild adventures, they had stumbled through the brothels of Volantis, looking for a show, if anything, for they had each other. But a drunken soldier had made as stubborn a demand for his wife as Lord Greyjoy attempted to incite strife. Pulling his wife away, insulted beyond the capability of her non-existing calmness, for she had been ready to cut a way through the soldier - and then what? - the rest of Volantis' tiger guard?
She would have. But after a dozen felled soldiers, they would have died in the streets like gutter trash. Back then, the solution had been simple: Arkas had told the soldier that not the silver-haired beauty was for sale, but that she was the patron of the establishment. The blue-eyed man, younger back then, tall and lean, had titled himself a whore rivaling the perfumed boys from Lys.
Personal honour meant nothing when measured against the greater good. "If you're thinking of the Dance of Dragons, Lord Greyjoy, I can assure you. You're the only one hearing the music." Not that others weren't willing to dance. Arkas' gaze returned to Prince Daeron across the distance of the hall. Late, indeed. Daeron had been late for years, seeking the company of soldiers and not men of peace. How well fortified had Harrenhall become in those years? How many regular men had rallied to the Smallfolk Prince?
"Come here, boy." Arkas ordered, looking out of the triangle of threats toward the Wolf's son. He moved well, but in the South, there wasn't a pack that would have covered his advance. All alone, the Starks were not strong, melting before the Stormlord's gaze. But then, it softened.
"You're Lord Stark's son." That wasn't a question. "And Winter is coming, isn't it?" The Summer had been long and still it had not ended. But the Starks were rarely talking about weather, were they? "No Winter is colder than those up North. I trust your father has taught you the needs of stocking provisions, of being prepared for the eventualities to come. After all, there are so few of us dreaming Dragon Dreams."
Eventually it was time to pose that question, wasn't it?
"You're the closest we're going to get to some stern Northern advice on leadership. What would your father say about this matter?"
Northern stories and anecdotes being longer than their Winters, hopefully such a tale would dissuade Lord Greyjoy. The Stark boy would live. Robust as the First Men, House Stark was one of survivors.
The Targaryen King had passed. The Tyrell's were quite close and had built a stable, respectable relationship with House Targaryen, so it was no surprise that they would come to the wake of the former King.
Lukas had found himself amongst many fabled men, and did not feel the least bit overshadowed. His confidence kept him moving through the crowds of people with chest out, and shoulders wide. Though, he wasn't arrogant— the young Rose wouldn't allow anyone to demean him or his House.
The heir to House Tyrell flowed towards the casket, noting each familiar face he came across before pushing forward. He paid his respects, said a prayer for the man who he held in high esteem, and turned around to face the crowd. How many people here actually wanted the King dead? Only to be here to pay their fake respects, to keep their fake ties from being broken. The idea of a snake amongst one's company filled the young man with disgust.
Blue orbs found themselves locked on the quarrel between the former Hand of the King, and an Ironborn scum. It seemed their people had no ounce of class amongst their ranks. Though Lukas didn't underestimate their naval power, he clearly disapproved of the way they spoke.
This was not only a time to pay respects, but a time to fortify current relationships as well as create new ones. Oh, how he hated playing the political game. Why had he have to be blessed with such good looks, and a natural way with words. Lukas had no horse in the race for the next person to sit on the Iron Throne. He knew some of the Targaryen's through interactions in his past, but he had yet to truly get a handle on any one of them.
The young Rose had no desire to become King, instead he wished for the realm to remain at peace. But, as one could see from the current situation unfolding before everyone— the "Dance of Dragons" was about to begin. For now, while he waited and listened in on the conversation between the hand, the ironborn and the son of Lord Stark, Lukas found himself a alcoholic drink to sip on while things unfolded.
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